The last time I reviewed somewhere in Bearwood I ended up with a picture of me on the wall, directly under JC himself, a consequence of my mate Tam taking me for lunch, which led to this ledge writing about it, which led to a ledge called Tom Parker Bowles writing about it, which led to people driving from all over the country to eat some braised bits of animal curled-up in a taco. Now that’s a big sentence to start with, but it is how I ended-up with me being mounted on a wall under The Lord himself. Inject it directly into my veins, or replace that with something equally basic bitch.
So no pressure 1000 Trades On The Park, none at all. Just note that if my massive bonce isn’t on the wall terrorising the locals over their pint of Lightbulb I’m going to be mildly pissed off for all of twenty seconds. Because this is going to be a bloody great review about somewhere that exceeded expectation in just about every way. Firstly the building is beautiful, a handsome red brick Georgian mansion that holds council weddings to one side and has the proud and softly lit pub to the other. And then there is the service, the kind that softens you immediately, sincere and warming, where every man, woman, and dog gets the same welcome.
On paper the menu doesn’t look much. Pub classics modestly put together with little ego. Soup of the day. Pie of the day with chips or mash. A burger, some slow cooked meat, and pan-fried fish. That kind of thing. Starters top-out at £8, mains all mid-teens. Value absolutely everywhere. We order three starters between two, some fish, and a pie of the day which actually turns out to be a choice of chicken and ham, a veggie option, and tomorrow’s beef pie. They suggest the beef pie. I do as I’m told.
I want to tell you about the pie now, but first the other stuff. ‘Nduja scotch egg, pokey with spicy pork fat and offset by a yolk that oozes out at the slightest nudge. Textbook soup that tastes strongly of both carrot and ginger, rather than nondescript vegetable stock as too often the case. Mushrooms on toast, carefully cooked in lots of butter, tarragon, and a little cream. A frazzled bonsai of fried enoki on top, not just to make it look pretty but also to add texture. All of it accomplished and properly seasoned.
Now that pie. Because it is a pie, not a stew with a lid, but a stew encased entirely in pastry so short it’s been booked to play DeVito’s character in the reboot of Twins. Baked blind, filled, sealed then baked again. Not a saggy arse in sight. Not a dry eye in the house. There are other pies locally, including Mad O’Rourkes, and one or two others with the word pie in the name, but none come close to this. The filling is intensely beefy with chunks of meat, baby onions, and mushrooms, bound in a gravy that I plough through two jugs of. Pie of the day? Pah. Pie of the year more like. And there is the hake, thirty seconds in the pan longer than it needed to be but still excellent, with warm tartare sauce and buttery halves of new season potato. I wasn’t expecting it to be this good. I’m pretty blown away.
We share a dessert in the name of work despite there being no room at all for it. It’s a sticky toffee pudding which only suffers for being a sticky toffee pudding after the one at The Devonshire two weeks prior. Still, it’s very, very good. We walk it off on the way home, past two friends houses who incidentally have to pass ours to get to other good pubs. Maybe we should do this walk more often. Maybe we should meet friends there and maybe we should take our dads there to enjoy a pint and a pie. Will I be going back regularly? Does a bear shit in the woods? Absolutely
9/10
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